


Dear Arthur

by ThunderboltBlast



Category: Arthurian Legend, Arthurian Mythology
Genre: F/M, Heavy Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 11:32:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5162330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThunderboltBlast/pseuds/ThunderboltBlast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of letters over the years, from Guinevere to Arthur, some of which may not have been sent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dear Arthur

Dear Arthur,

It is the day of the maying when we will be wed, and today is only a few months before then. I look forward to making your acquaintance. I have heard great things about you, of your accomplishments and how you show promise as a king in the footsteps of your father, Uther Pendragon. I hope these accounts have not been inflated too much, and I would be happy to support you in your future endeavors.

Although we know scarcely anything of each other, I would like to change that. As your wife to be, I would be glad for us to have a friendship beyond our marriage. 

* * *

Dear Arthur,

I hope you were not disappointed when we met, but from the look on your face when we saw each other, dare I say my hope was fulfilled? I may also say the hope I expressed in my previous letter came true. You are intelligent, well-spoken and kind, a truer knight than any I have seen before. I would gladly be your queen, and I am thankful for the chance we had to know each other properly prior to the wedding. The quests you spoke of hoping to pursue sounded daunting, particularly that for the Holy Grail, but I would not object to seeing them undertaken. Such opportunities should not be wasted, and I would certainly like to see them myself were I a knight.

Your fearlessness may seem interchangeable with stupidity in the eyes of some, and were it from anyone but you, I might be inclined to think the same. But from you, anything sounds possible with no stone left unturned and no mountain left unconquered. It is courage, and what courage is not unadmirable?

From this day forward, I am glad to be your wife, and I will be by your side for every storm that comes and every glory that will shine.

* * *

Dear Arthur,

Have I ever told you how beautiful you are when you sleep? I imagine that would not be what most men would like to hear from their wives, being called beautiful in the way women are called so often in ballads, but there are few other words for it. Soft, perhaps, or tender. No, peaceful. Peaceful and gentle, a moment of softness, a crack in the armor you hold as the mighty king when awake.

I wish I could let you sleep longer. I must have worn you out enough already on our wedding night, when all we did was sit in bed and talk until we could almost see the light of dawn. The stars were beautiful that night, do you remember that? We stepped outside to see them, before we had to leave for the bedchamber. No cloud in the sky, not even one to cover the moon, and the moon itself had nearly been full.

I hope we can have more nights like that.

* * *

Dear Arthur,

I promise not to laugh when you hit your arm against the wall while trying to get in the right position, as long as you don’t laugh when we bump heads while trying to get up from it. Honestly!

And please, don’t make that loud of a sound when you do that. It’s very nice to hear, but does the whole castle really need to know more than they already do about us?

Mind you, I do like that sound. Maybe too much. But just keep it down, and maybe I won’t die of the embarrassment.

Oh, stop laughing.

* * *

Dear Arthur,

I wish you would smile more. You laugh sometimes with me, sometimes at feasts and celebrations, but your smile is something else. Warmth is the word that comes to mind for it. I could describe it as a light, but there really is no other word to call it. I wish I could make you smile more, but those times when you do are also more precious in their rarity. And when it is for me, I think I would be content with just that and not one of my jewels.

Please, be happy. You have all the reason in the world to be, reason you deserve. I wish you knew how happy you make me. 

* * *

Dear Arthur,

There’s a phrase of the Romans. In vino veritas, was it not? Drink enough wine, and you’ll tell the truth?

Husbands tell what they claim is true to their wives, in the light of day with clear minds, before they go on to lie with a maid. It seems funny, almost, to see you in the opposite.

But did you mean what you said? In the morning, with a clear mind, will you mean it? Do you?

Because I would mean it, if I told you the same. And if you do, I would be happy.

* * *

My love,

I write those words because that is what you are. You are not merely my husband. It feels good to write those words, but even better when you say them to me.

I wonder if this is how a poet feels when I write it. I could write a song of it like they do, yet I would have no words other than what you and I said.

I love you.

I know this as a fact, as much as the shade of blue in the sky during day and the leaves that fall in autumn. Where we would go with this, considering that we are already husband and wife, I don’t know. But I love you, and you love me, and that is all I could ask for. I was so lucky to have had you, out of all men, as my betrothed. My husband.

I love you.

* * *

Dear Arthur,

Meleagant was hardly the man he claimed himself to be. I wish I could have feared him, if only to feel something other than apathy, almost pity, for such a pathetic excuse for a man. But there was only emptiness, and that is where my near pity comes in. It’s somewhat negated by the fact he kidnapped me and held me in his castle, of course. Bastard.

You had every right to be worried about me, but I assure you that there was nothing to truly worry about. You placed your faith rightfully in Gawain and Lancelot to save me, as they are undoubtedly brave men, and Lancelot deserves the position in the Round Table he has received.

For what it is worth, I think you look handsome when you worry. Your eyebrows scrunch together closely to your eyes, and your eyes are wider and brighter.

In other words, I feel fine. Please don’t beat yourself over this. None of this was your fault.

* * *

Dear Arthur,

Where were you last night? The battle was everywhere, at times I couldn’t tell apart Lot’s knights from ours when I was firing arrows. I looked for you when I saw Lot’s body--he was bleeding on the ground, his eyes open and unseeing, and his wife, Morgause, was nowhere in sight. But no one could tell me where you were, not even Kay or Lancelot or Gawain. Merlin must have known something, I could see it in his eyes, but he would not tell me what.

You didn’t look me in the eye today. Why?

* * *

Dear Arthur,

How can you lie with me and touch me and hold me in your arms the way you do, and then pull away and get up and walk out the door, back to being the king and the leader, and never look me in the eyes at all, as if I’m not there? As if I mean nothing to you?

Why are you doing this? What did I do wrong? Why will you not speak to me?

* * *

Dear Arthur,

I understand that this is difficult for you. You are a king, and your kingdom needs you more than ever after you took Gaul from the Romans. War is never easy or beautiful, and we have to look at what is most important.

But would it hurt you to at least tell me how you feel? I told you I wanted to be your friend. I will always be your friend above your wife, your lover, your queen. You can tell me anything, and I will never judge you for it. I will never think you weak or spineless or a coward for how you feel. I will never hate you or betray you. There is no need for you to be the perfect leader when you are with me.

Is this because we still have no child? Are you angry with me because I have not yet given you a son, despite all the nights we tried for one? I promise I will give you one. I have tried so hard, Arthur, I have prayed to the Virgin, I have prayed to the patrons of women I know of so many times I have lost count. I don't know what you want me to do. 

I love you, Arthur. What else do you want me to say?

Why will you not let me help you?

* * *

Dear Arthur,

Lancelot tells me a lot of things. He tells me he believes you want to be alone, that you alone feel responsible for what is to come. He tells me he fears you have lost faith in your knights, as you no longer confide in them. He tells me he wishes he knew what was wrong, and he wonders if he was part of the cause, and this is one of the few matters Kay agrees with him on (and you know how well they get along).

Nowadays, I tell Lancelot a lot of things as well. He’s a good friend. He reminds me of you.

* * *

Dear Arthur,

Today, I took my morning ride into the courtyard. I saw Lancelot in the gardens, sitting against a tree. He was in his tunic, with his armor off, and his sword was beside him. He had fallen asleep.

He looks lovely when he sleeps. He looks peaceful, perhaps, or tender. No, soft. Soft and gentle, vulnerable.

I let him sleep longer, because he appeared tired enough already.

When I woke up this morning, you were gone and I was alone in the bed. You come in too late at night for me to still be awake when you return, and you leave too early for me to see you. I don’t remember how long it’s been since the last time I saw you asleep.

* * *

Dear Arthur,

Lancelot is lovely to talk to when you’re frustrated, when you’re tired after a long day of signing papers and speaking to villagers, when you need someone to listen to you and tell you things will be alright. Lancelot is lovely to talk to in general.

I wish I could talk to you.

* * *

Dear Arthur,

I think I drank too much at the feast last night. The wine was too tart, but it was sweet at the edges. It was strong, and when I looked around, everything was blurred, hazy. It felt like a dream. When I looked at you, I couldn’t see your face.

I only saw it when I looked at Lancelot.

Lancelot is very handsome.

* * *

Dear Arthur,

You would have found out sooner or later. Perhaps I knew you would, and perhaps I was hoping for it. Of course, it had to be your nephew who told you. I suppose Mordred is perfectly happy now.

When I was with Lancelot, I thought of how lovely he was, how well-spoken he was, how intelligent and kind and understanding. I thought of you, and when I saw him, I saw you.

I see you in everything about Lancelot. He was there when you turned away. He looked at me where you looked through me. He was my friend when you were my king.

Now, I will be tied to a stake to burn. I will pay the price for infidelity, or at least, that is what you should have meant when you ordered this.

Only an hour until I am to die, and yet, no knights have been sent to guard the pyre I see outside. Is that it, then, Arthur? You will let Lancelot rescue me, like something out of the romances that the ballads tell of.

I have nothing else to say. I should be grateful. I don’t know what to feel.

* * *

Dear Arthur,

Lancelot rescued me. The flames were burning below me, the smoke in the air, and he arrived on his horse of white to put out the fire and untie me from the pyre. You were not there to see it. No one present stopped him. He saved me, and I was able to leave with him.

Why did you let him save me?

* * *

Dear Arthur,

Please come back. Mordred has taken your throne and made himself king. With you gone with the knights, there is no one left to protect Camelot. Nothing I did stopped him, and he wanted to marry me, to make me his queen to strengthen his claim. He told me of how Morgause had pressed upon him his destiny to defeat Arthur, his father, his uncle. I remembered that night when I could not find you after the battle against King Lot, after Morgause had vanished, and I understood.

I would have been furious if I had not been with Lancelot as you had been with Morgause, if you had been furious enough to mean your sentence against me to burn for what I did, if I had not remembered how you would not look me in the eye in the morning after and how that began your withdrawal from me.

So, I could not be. How could I?

And I fled. It was all I could think of at the time, and I wish I could have fought back more, I wish I could have done anything more.

I now hide in a convent, and here, the nuns are kind to me, but they have no idea of who I am. They only think me a poor beggar woman in need of shelter, what with all my finery having been reduced to rags in the run and my hair strung out and my face now so thin. I write this to you on borrowed paper and time, as Mordred is surely looking for me.

I don’t know what to do. I went out this morning, only to try and find villagers here to gather in an effort against him. But no one cares for how a distant place will fare under his rule. This is a village under a different man, and why should they think of what happens to those ruled by another? And who would listen to a beggar, a queen who should be ashes?

Come back. Please come back, Arthur. Your kingdom needs you. Your kingdom loves you.

I love you.

* * *

Dear Arthur,

I have tried to write this letter for almost two months. Every time I begin, I can think of nothing to say without crying.

I never meant for anything of this to happen, yet that is no excuse. What happened can never change. But I wish I could have said something more when you were bleeding on the ground and there was nothing anyone could do.

Even when I told Lancelot I loved him, I loved you. I loved you when I hated you for turning away from me and never telling me why, and I blamed myself for failing in giving you the son you desired. I loved you when you had me tied to burn at the stake for my betrayal, and you left it defenseless to allow Lancelot to save me. I loved you when I spent weeks on the run from Mordred, with nothing left to my name, and I thought of you away in Rome, preparing for battle, and I hoped you would survive, I hoped you would come back. For Camelot. And, selfishly, for me.

I thought you would overcome this as you had everything else. You had spoken of that so long ago, of conquering the unconquerable, of leaving no stone unturned, and I thought you so brave and I loved you for it.

How could I not have?

Even if we had never been married, I would have loved you. It was always you I loved.

When Lancelot and I met for the last time at the convent, I told him the truth: that you had been the one I always loved, that he deserved better than what I had given him. He told me he understood, but I don’t believe he does. How can he? But he showed no surprise when I confessed I had used him because I had seen him as a replacement of what you had been to me. Had I been that obvious? How could I have been so uncaring?

The magic has left, and Merlin is gone. The knights have departed on their own ways, and here I will remain in the convent. I have taken my vows, for the nuns accept me as one of their own when I have nowhere else to go, and here I stay.

You will return in the Britons’ hour of greatest need, and by then, I will no longer be around to see it. I can only hope that I will be reborn as someone else, someone wiser than I ever was. Perhaps you will be reborn as well in your return, and we will meet again in a new life. A life we can make our own, without a destiny.

And, Arthur?

The stars are especially beautiful tonight. There is no cloud in the sky, not even one to cover the moon, and the moon is nearly full.

Guinevere


End file.
